White City Blue

  Colin’s wearing a QPR shirt with an egg stain down the front, a pair of faded black canvas jeans and a pair of fake Air Jordans. I hear Olive grunting resentfully in the next room and I suddenly think of asking him jovially if he’s ever heard of euthanasia, then think better of it. Colin’s sensitive on the subject of Olive. I suppose he’s bound to be, she being his mother, but I would have thought by now he would have let himself hate her a little… tiny bit. But then that would mean opening a crack in the door; the door behind which stands that neon sign perpetually flashing: Guess What, Loser? You Wasted Your Life.

  The flat has the exact same smell I remember from childhood, the straight-out-of-the-cellophane meat pie smell, then something milky, then, underneath, embrocation, floral air freshener, cigarette butt.

  Through a doorway, I see old Olive Burden sitting in a big faded wing chair, shifting slowly from side to side. There is an ad for Bodyform Sanitary Towels on the television which she is watching raptly. Colin is regarding her with fondness.

  Dear old Mum. She’s had it tough. Haven’t you, Mum? Eh? Do you want a cup of tea?

  This last remark is shouted at Olive, but she doesn’t respond. I’m staring idly around the corridor. Up above eye level, I notice an old photograph that’s probably been there years but for some reason I’ve never noticed before. It’s of Colin, about four or five years old, in what looks like a brand-new school uniform. He is staring at the camera, smiling broadly. He looks happy, unafraid, an ordinary kid. It is before his acne, before his father became a drunk, before his mother went crazy. His skin is glowingly, heartbreakingly, pink, fresh and pure. His eyes are not sludge-coloured, but quite a vivid blue.

  The present, reduced, Colin turns to me and beckons me towards his room, and I follow him, not breathing through my nose because of the smell. Something aches slightly at the walls of my chest.

  The room is about 12 x 12. The ceilings are low; there is a single bed against one wall and, above the bed, a collage of QPR posters stuck edge to edge with Sellotape, so that no portion of wall underneath is visible. On the opposite wall is a small window overlooking the neighbouring block of flats, and next to that window, a computer table with a screen and keyboard on top. Scattered all around here are floppy disks, computer manuals, old screwdrivers, CD-Roms and a forest of wires and leads. There is a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a few shelves with no books but dozens of videotapes. I read the titles scrawled on some of the spines: The Evil Dead, The Howling, DrPhibes Rises Again, Halloween, QPR Season 1997–8. All horror movies then. I wonder if any of them conceal porn but decide probably not. Colin would simply download it from the Internet, store it on his hardware, to use with his software, when his software was hard. Or something like that.

  On the floor, comics – Viz, Loaded – a few graphic novels, The Sandman and Batman: The Dark Avenger, and a heap of computer manuals. No fiction.

  The two other walls are bare apart from a giant photograph of Claudia Schiffer and an unframed film poster advertising Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with one drawing pin in each corner. What is obvious suddenly occurs to me with a strange freshness: I am in a child’s bedroom.

  Colin is sitting down at his computer terminal now, and the light from the screen illuminates his face. I can see already that he is lost in the screen, that some part of him has dissolved into that network of electrical impulses and silicon chips that constitutes the virtual world. He has not offered me a drink or a chair.

  Check this out! says Colin.

  He punches at the buttons on his keyboard with an accusing single finger, until the screen suddenly fills with a full colour photograph of a well-known film star being fellated by what appears to be a twelve-year-old girl.

  Colin giggles, and jigs about in his office chair, rotating it twenty-five degrees one way, then fifty degrees the other, then back again. He is in his element here, among his darker impulses and domestic electricity. His blink rate is up, his leg twitches like Tony’s does when he’s down the pub, or about to close in on a new woman.

  That’s pretty wild, I say, feeling a bit sick. I’m not sure the girl is even twelve. But I don’t say anything else. I don’t judge my friends, like Nodge does.

  That’s nothing. You’ve got to see the ‘Horse, Donkey and Other Equestrian’ page. I think it’s http backslash www stop pony and cart stop com.

  That would be nice. But I’ve got to get back to the office quite quickly. I wonder if you could just have a quick look at my portable. It seems pretty fucked. I threw it at the wall.

  Colin looks momentarily depressed, even a little shocked.

  You threw it at the wall?

  Yeah. It destroyed a file. For no reason whatsoever. So I threw it at the wall.

  He tuts, with genuine disapproval. I know he thinks that this is both childish – since computers can only do what they are told to do – and immoral. He is far more shocked by the idea of me doing damage to this laptop than the idea of some poor woman being reamed by a Shetland pony, or a kid sucking a movie star’s todger. He swings round on his chair to directly face me. His eyes, however, do not meet mine, but settle right away on the laptop.

  The r7685x. With or without modem?

  With.

  33.6?

  Yeah.

  What’s the CD speed?

  Does it really matter, Col? The point is, it’s not very well and I need it fixed. Do you think you can do anything?

  Nice machine.

  He fondles the casing as if he were a mother holding a child. He switches it on, punts at a few buttons, then says immediately, It’s got a virus in it.

  What?

  A virus. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure. People design them to mess up other people’s computer software. Bad people.

  He giggles. It really is a giggle, not a laugh; small, a fast repeater, goes on much too long, no real humour in it.

  Of course I’ve heard of them. Farley, Ratchett & Gwynne are plagued by the things. It seems estate agents are among hackers’ favourite targets.

  Colin gives another little snigger.

  Have you downloaded anything recently? he asks.

  Sure. I download stuff all the time. From the company computer, from the Net, from e-mail.

  Have you got anti-virus software?

  No.

  You need some. I’ll design some for you. And I think I can retrieve what you’ve lost. Although I can’t be sure. As for the keyboard giving you the wrong letters… He punched at the keyboard. The ‘a’ produced a number 8, the ‘b’ an asterisk. That looks like hardware damage to me.

  That’s bad, is it?

  Yes. But it’s not necessarily fatal.

  And with that, he switches off the laptop and summarily rips the back off and begins poking around with a tiny screwdriver. I watch amazed as his hand darts from tiny circuit to tiny circuit, at bewildering speed. He talks to me while he works.

  Have you any ideas about what we’re going to do for 14 August yet?

  Not really.

  For some reason, the whole idea of 14 August fills me with apprehension and gloom. Colin seems to relish the prospect. He always does.

  What about this? We’ll start off by getting binnered. Then down to Thorpe Park and have a go on all the rides. Then go-karting in the afternoon.

  We did that two years ago.

  Oh.

  His attention is on the guts of the computer again. I’m finding the silence a bit uncomfortable. I think back to the disaster with Vronky at the pub, heretofore the one and only meeting between my marital future and my social past.

  What did you think of Veronica then?

  This is quite badly damaged, you know. What did you do to it?

  I was aiming it at the settee, I mean sofa. I missed.

  I pick a greeny out of my nose and flick it. It seems O K in this environment, even appropriate.

  Veronica. What you reckon?

  Oh. She was nice.

  Just nice?

  Umhmmm. S
he was great. Amazing legs. I think you’re going to have to leave this with me.

  Veronica is clearly a subject Colin is uncomfortable with. But for some reason I have trouble dropping the topic.

  Do you know, she said something very funny. Well, it made me laugh.

  It’s going to be touch and go. The hard drive is quite severely compromised.

  She said she didn’t think we really liked each other. Me, you, Nodge and Tony. Stupid, isn’t it?

  Colin looks up suddenly from the computer, his face an unreadable mask.

  That’s a strange thing to say.

  Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it?

  A very strange thing to say.

  There is a short pause, before Colin turns back to the computer. I can’t work out what he is thinking, but whatever it is, he’s forgotten it again now.

  I don’t know if I’m going to be able to rescue this.

  But I need it. There’s all kinds of stuff in there.

  Didn’t you back up?

  Of course I didn’t back up. It’s nearly brand new, top of the range. Why should it go wrong?

  What sort of stuff?

  All kinds. Very, very important. Vital.

  Colin whistles like a greedy plumber.

  I don’t know, Frankie. It’s pretty badly hurt. Could take me a couple of days. What about golf?

  Hmmh?

  On 14 August. We could all go and have a game of golf. Maybe over at Perivale. Then take it from there.

  Great. Whatever. I’ll check with Nodge and Tony. Can you fix it?

  Colin looks up at me as if I’m simple-minded and says, Of course I can fix it. It’s just a matter of time. I’ve got to take Mum to the hospital tomorrow, and she’s got physiotherapy after that, then an appointment at the Mental Health Unit –

  He stops, looks thoroughly confused for a moment. The nine-year-old whose room he inhabits suddenly appears in that prematurely worn face. He looks at me, almost uniquely, right in the eyes.

  She’s very ill, you know, Frankie.

  I can’t help myself. I glance at my watch. I’ve got an appointment in Hammersmith in fifteen minutes. Just about enough time, if I motor it.

  Sure. I know. She’s been ill a long time.

  No, but, Frankie. She really is ill now. They’ve found something on the X-ray. I don’t know if…

  I look vaguely in Colin’s direction, pat him on the back, glancing again at my watch as I do so.

  Colin, she’s going to be fine. She’s as tough as old boots is Olive. More’s the pity, eh? Just kidding, just kidding. I’m really sorry, old fruit. I’ve got to hurry off. I’ve got a flat to show. If I can just do another 200K’s worth of business, I’m up for a big bonus this month. Listen, we’ll have a drink, eh? I’m going to owe you a big one if you get that stuff back for me. Can I just leave it with you then? Maybe pick it up Friday afternoon?

  Colin pauses for a moment, as if he wants badly to say something else. But then he slowly and deliberately nods.

  Friday, yeah.

  Excellent. You’re a pal, a mucker. I’ll give you a bell, all right?

  Yeah. Give me a bell.

  He says this lifelessly, almost under his breath. I start to charge towards the door; to my left, I see Olive Burden in exactly the same position as when I came in.

  I yell, at the top of my lungs, Bye, Mrs Burden. Then, under my breath, Die soon!

  I see her move very slightly. Her mouth works, then works harder. Then she says, Colin who?

  And I laugh, and I’m out of the door, out of the smell and the constriction, and I look over the balcony. The Beemer seems OK. Colin who? Colin who? Poor old loony that she is.

  When I get down to the car, I see that both the registration plates have been pulled off and one of the lights has been kicked out. I get in to start the car. The battery’s dead. I go to the bonnet and lift it. The battery’s gone. I kick the wall and swear pointlessly at the BBC building, just visible in the distance.

  With my mobile, I call the AA and sit back to wait. I consider going up to Colin’s flat, but decide that I can’t afford to leave the car. I know it could be hours. I crank the seat back and let the recline go obtuse. The voice in my ear that followed me out of the flat repeats, Colin who?

  I look up at the block of flats and imagine I can see him for a moment, but it’s just a shadow, or more probably a dosser. It occurs to me how sorry I feel for him, and simultaneously how angry. Loser… I wonder if it was always like that. I don’t think so. I know it wasn’t. Once upon a time, Colin was truly my best friend. Once upon a time, I realize with a strange shock, I loved him more than anyone else in the world.

  Chapter Seven: A Child’s Theory of Games

  Colin was not my first friend, but he was my first Best Friend. I don’t have to think twice to remember. His mother was a housewife, his father – who knew? Who cared? You don’t talk about those things when you’re nine years old, which is when we became mates. You don’t talk about what you’re going to do with your life, or how much you’ve failed to do with your life, or who is sleeping with who, or how much you’ve been hurt, or how the telly isn’t as good as it used to be. You don’t talk about your disappointments, or whether or not you’re happy, or how much money you’re making, or how paralytic you got last night.

  You just played games. Honest games, that had names and rules and horizons and borders. You knew where you were with that sort of game. You won, you lost, sometimes you drew. They were exciting, fun. Innocent, I suppose. Not like the games you learned to play when you were older, the invisible ones, where you only learned that you had lost – when you only learned that a game was being played – when it was too late. The games that hurt.

  Not fair, not fair.

  When I say that Colin and I were friends, I mean the word in a different sense from the way I use it today. We were together, we were – not one person exactly, more like two sides of the same person. I don’t know if we loved each other. It went beyond that. It was like – this sounds silly, I know, but it’s true – it was like I imagined marriage would be when I was older. I thought that being married would be like being with Colin. When I was big and had a wife, she and I would play games together, laugh when we saw each other by accident in the street, chatter nineteen to the dozen about nothing in particular, go on adventures. We would make each other feel complete without losing any part of ourselves in the process.

  I knew, incidentally, that I would get married, because it had been predicted by the numbers on a bus ticket. It was a game we played – as I say, life was full of games then, declared and identified as such. You would check the numbers on the bus ticket, of which there were five. The first two indicated how long you would live (73), the next one how many wives you would have (4) and the last how many children (2). Some people did it all the time, changing their prediction with each ticket. Me, I did it just the once – otherwise it just seemed pointless. It would have been cheating. Rules are meant to be kept.

  To this day there is still a part of me that believes I will live until seventy-three and have two children. As for the four wives – I don’t know. To be honest, I’m losing faith. By the age of thirty I should have been on my second by now. Why have I waited so long even for the first? I don’t know.

  Maybe I’ve been waiting for Colin all these years. Some version of what we had. Veronica is the abandonment of that hope, perhaps. That’s good. It means I must be growing up.

  I used to – I still do – take my games seriously. Colin and I understood that if you didn’t take them seriously, there was no point. But it was a very exact kind of seriousness – earnest without being vexed, light without being flippant.

  We each had our own areas of expertise, games in which we expected to triumph. For me, it was ping-pong. There was an ordinary kitchen table in my dad’s garage where we set up with a net, and we would go into that garage and play – I’m not kidding – for hours.

  I had a square bat, green flat rubber, pimpl
es facing inward. Inherited from my dad, quite a fine player in his day. It was a Slazenger Victor Barna. Colin played with a classic round bat, no foam under the rubber, pimples out. Very solid, very reliable, good to block the ball, good for defence and for deadening your opponent’s spin. But the Barna – it was, it was more than just a bat. It could send that Halex Threestar ball every which way – the backdrop loop serve, the drop, the high-spun lob, the topspin backhand. It was a wand, it was a mace.

  I played that ball like one day I would play at life – in deadly earnest, aggressive, a little unpredictable, not always thinking out every move, but by force of will always one step ahead. Watching that little pale globe leaving the surface of the bat, steady as if you had sent it straight, then hit the table and spin, forty-five degrees, fifty degrees, sixty degrees. If Colin got to it, sometimes it would just fly off his bat like a comet. On the balls of my feet like a boxer, knees slightly bent, moving from the waist. Deadly.

  Colin, on the other hand, his game was table football. Not Subbuteo – neither of us ever got the hang of that for some reason. This was based on tiddlywinks, with the base of each player a flat disc the size of a new tenpenny piece. You flicked the counter from one end of the pitch to the other. Colin, he was precise, organized. He never went for the fancy shot, always played percentages. Slow and steady wins the race. He was the tortoise, I was the hare.

  I remember his baby face, pre-acne, creased up in concentration, ready to flick, never more than two or three inches, whereas I’d always go for bust, the big one to the other end of the pitch. Bad strategy. Always my problem. Seven or eight times out of ten, he’d take me, not spectacularly, by the odd goal or two. It was enough. Colin never wanted life to be spectacular, even then.

  Baby-face Colin. I wish I’d kissed him, before it was too late, before we were both self-conscious, grown. In my memory, I hold him in my arms and crush his bony, delicate body to mine. Colin, with his furrowing brow, the steady flick, flick, flick. We would stand and watch sycamore helicopters fall from the trees, capture them, and try and make them land on a spot on the ground. We would share Blackjacks and Fruit Salads, we would spill white Sherbet Dabs on our shorts.